


i don't wanna sit at home (i gotta get where i'm goin')

by moons0ng



Series: what a time (to be alive) [3]
Category: Men's Basketball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Set in the 2013-14 season, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moons0ng/pseuds/moons0ng
Summary: the warriors fall to the clippers after a rough seven games in the first round of the 2014 playoffs. it's a rough summer for everyone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [kawhi voice] what it do babyyyy
> 
> we got chapters this time!

**Western Conference Round 1, Game 7 — Golden State Warriors (3-4) fall to L.A. Clippers (4-3) in a nail-biter, 121-126, eliminating the Steph Curry-led team from the playoffs.**

Steph was crying the second he left the court, scrunching up his nose to try and stop the tears, the neck of his jersey pulled up over his face to hide his swollen eyes and trembling chin as he made his way back to the locker room. 

There wasn’t much to be said, once they’d all gathered in the unwelcoming room. Steph and Klay sat next to each other, slouched down miserably in their chairs, not even looking at each other as they changed out of their uniforms for the last time that season. 

Steph could tell anger was bubbling through Draymond’s veins — the series hadn’t gone the way any of them expected, dragging out to a full seven games, one of which they’d been blown out in by forty points. There was no love lost between their team and the Clippers, and the sight of them celebrating Golden State’s elimination—a first round exit, no less—had Steph furious, too.

But his anger always tended to burn out quickly, fading into disappointment and a painful feeling of embarrassment, shame at losing on such a big stage, in a series where their hopes had been so high.

After all, they’d made it to the second round the year before. They should’ve been better this year, but some injuries had shaken them up, and their performance had been unstable at times, not the prettier version of basketball they liked to play.

But they’d still had hope, going into the series and even going into tonight, of winning, of sending the Clippers home. 

Steph himself had been incredibly confident in their team, in himself, Klay, Draymond, David Lee and the rest of the guys and their ability to confront struggles and surpass them, but at that moment, as their coach encouraged them not to let this (devastating) loss shake their faith, to be proud of the effort they’d put in, he’d never felt less confident.

This should’ve been their chance to win, to prove themselves once and for all as contenders — not just a fringe team that didn’t deserve much thought. And they’d lost, giving their detractors ammunition to talk as much shit this summer about them as they wanted to.

Steph barely heard the coach’s words, feeling them slip through his brain and fade away before he could make sense of them, and he barely felt more lucid as he made his way out of the arena shortly after. Klay stopped him before he left, grabbing his arm and turning him towards himself.

“You okay?” Klay asked, lip curling up at the corner, belying the fact that he knew it was a ridiculous question. They were alone in the hallway and there was an unnerving feeling to it. 

Klay had once waxed philosophical about the memories arenas held in them, talking about how teams had won and lost championships in the same arenas, sometimes leaving behind the smell of champagne, other times the haunting aura of tears spilled. The buildings themselves sometimes seemed to retain the memories of the things that had happened in them — stepping foot onto certain courts you could almost picture highlight moments from games played thirty years earlier. 

Steph knew the next time they played on the Clippers' home court, he'd be reliving the memory of this loss, fresh as if it had happened the day before.

He took a deep breath, grounding himself, and forced himself to meet Klay’s eyes — he owed it to his teammate, as the leader of the team, to keep it together at least on the surface. “Not right now, but I will be,” Steph said, and Klay nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry, man,” he added, reaching up and squeezing Klay’s shoulder.

He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. He hadn’t played badly, but his play hadn’t been jaw-dropping, either. He just couldn’t bear the thought of Klay, in some deeply recessed and barely conscious corner of his brain harboring some resentment that Steph, as their leader, hadn’t been able to close out the game, to pull out some final magic to get it done.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Klay said softly, looking somewhat concerned. “It ain’t your fault.” He was unbearably sincere, and at that moment it was a little too much for Steph, who just wanted to lie down and cry for a good hour, let himself dwell in his sadness instead of pretending like things were fine.

Noticing Steph start to edge away from him, Klay quickly tacked on — “You wanna come over when we get back and smoke? I’m tryna get faded and pretend this game didn’t happen.” He whispered it even though they were alone, like a highschooler trying to stay out of the teacher’s earshot.

“Nah, but I appreciate it, though,” Steph said, mentally in awe of Klay—so unchanging, no matter the direness of the circumstances. “I’m prob’ly just gonna go to bed. This shit wore me out.” 

Klay nodded, pressing his lips together firmly in understanding. He didn’t push it, which Steph was thankful for, just hugged him quickly before disappearing back into the arena, probably to find Draymond or someone else to entice into hanging out with him.

They’d played in L.A. for the final game seven, unfortunately lacking the home court advantage Oracle gave them. The flight back to Oakland was excruciating, the drive home even worse. At least the traffic was almost annoying enough to take his mind off the loss.

Once he got home, at what basically felt like the middle of the night, he flung his bags and jacket down right inside his front door, slamming and locking it behind himself in one smooth motion. He didn’t even turn the lights on as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom, sliding beneath the covers aggressively. 

His pent-up frustration at coming up short welled up and the dam finally burst as he let out a loud sob into his pillow, arms wrapping tightly around it as he allowed himself to cry. It wasn’t just that they’d lost, it was that they’d done worse than the year before. They were supposed to be on an upward trend, not a downward one.

Steph felt guilty for letting the fans down, his teammates down, but mostly for letting himself down, for not living up to the expectations he’d set for himself. His stomach tightened as he thought about how not only had they lost, everyone else in the league knew that they’d lost, probably expected it.

LeBron would’ve known, too, maybe had watched the game live (Steph hoped beyond all hope that he hadn’t) and somehow that hurt most of all. He was disappointed in himself for feeling the most upset about that over everything else, but it hurt to try so hard to impress someone and to continually come up short.

The other player had texted him before the series had started to wish him good luck, and again before the game that night, knowing they had a chance to slip past the Clippers and into the second round. Knowing he’d be watching had given Steph even more motivation, and made this an even bigger set-back than it would’ve been otherwise.

Thinking about it made him want to disappear.

He wished for a brief second that he’d taken Klay up on his offer, but the fresh round of tears that rose up out of nowhere made him realize that being around someone from the team when he was this vulnerable would have been a bad idea.

Alone in his house, too miserable even to get out of bed to pour himself a glass of water, he grabbed his phone and forced himself to text his mom back, knowing she was must've been worried. She knew how he got after losses—it was never pretty, and she didn't handle his losses well either, feeling his pain as if it were her own.

Steph refused to succumb to the temptation to google himself or their team and fall into a self-pitying spiral from reading articles about their loss. _Self care,_ he thought wryly as he tossed his phone halfway across the room, watching it land with a clatter on his desk in the corner of the room.

Now absolved from any responsibilities for weeks ahead, having been eliminated from the playoffs and the frantic sprint towards a title that accompanied them, he should have been able to fall asleep easily. He closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that he was relieved—it didn’t work, but he really was exhausted, so finding sleep wasn’t hard.

When he closed his eyes in the completely-dark room, the blinds and curtains drawn shut, the bathroom light extinguished, it was seconds before he was fading into an uneasy slumber. 

In his dream, he was alone on the court but with thousands of fans in the stands, watching him as he tried to make shots. Unable to sink even one shot from three (which should’ve been evidence enough that it was a dream), Steph drove to the rim for a layup, but it clanked unhappily against the rim before rolling off and bouncing onto the ground.

When he looked out into the stands, suspended in a feeling of helplessness, unable to do any of the things he normally could do effortlessly, he saw LeBron sitting up in the fourth row, staring unreadably down at him, not appearing even to recognize him. Still asleep, he shivered beneath his blankets, feeling cold all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did this hurt me to write? yes ur absolutely right it did!
> 
> sry this is so short!!! the next 2 chapters r a lot longer im sorry
> 
> also i was just watching a video of steph talking about playing with d'lo this season and im?? its gonna be so weird lol but im excited tho i love d'lo


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2!! lebron pov >:)

He was drunk when he decided to do it.

LeBron’s finger hovered briefly over the button on his laptop before he thought _fuck it_ and bought the plane ticket, round-trip out to Los Angeles for the weekend, leaving the next day. 

The month of June was waning, finally edging over into July, and the sullen stupor LeBron had found himself suffocated by since their Game 5 loss a few weeks earlier had finally started to fade. He’d yet to announce his decision to return to Cleveland for the upcoming season and the media buzz that had been focused on him had been nothing short of entertaining, relieving some of the pressure from the scrutiny of the Heat’s finals loss. 

He pictured some media member finding out that he was heading out to California for the week, and imagined the entirely incorrect conclusions they might draw up — because they’d surely never guess his true intentions. Sitting in bed, flipping haphazardly through TV channels, finishing up a six-pack of beer, even he himself could barely understand his true intentions. 

LeBron had other things he needed to do, a turbulent off-season to navigate, and yet he couldn’t keep his thoughts off a six-foot-three point guard living on the other side of the country who’d dealt with his own post-season struggles. 

His stomach had twisted painfully in sympathy as he’d watched Game 7 between the Clippers and Warriors a couple months before, watching Steph tear up as he left the court at the end of the game, eliminated in the first round. He’d known first-hand how much hope Steph had had for the playoffs that year, motivated by his second-round loss the year before, and he understood the pain and humiliation that came with a loss on that big a stage, especially when the expectations surrounding you had been high.

He’d texted Steph after, telling him he’d played well and that his team would figure things out eventually. Steph had responded, but he’d been curt, obviously not in a talking mood — not that LeBron could blame him. He imagined Steph had been looking ahead to a rough summer, knocked prematurely out of the playoffs, hoping beyond hope yet again that the next year would be better. 

And so tonight, a few beers in, he’d found himself booting up his laptop and buying a plane ticket out to the west coast. He’d never admit, especially to Steph, that he was doing it just to see him, but in his heart he couldn’t deny that that was the main (fine, the _only_) reason.

———————————————————————

**10:00 p.m., a day later, in San Francisco, CA**

His lips wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle in front of him as his elbows dug into the hardwood of the bar in front of him, his long limbs having trouble fitting into this world filled with furniture not meant for people like him. Studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone, including the woman a few seats down who’d been eyeing him all night, he pulled out his phone, wiping it on his shirt to clean the screen before bringing it up to his line of sight.

LeBron flicked quickly through his texts with Steph from the summer — they were few and far between. In fact, they seldom texted, mostly quick suggestions of times and places to meet throughout the last few months, the reason why always unwritten. 

He didn’t like to text too often — it felt too friendly, like they were teammates or something — but he always responded to Steph’s messages.

Steph texted him pretty regularly, had since he’d been in college and LeBron had given him his number to text if he needed advice about the draft. Usually when Steph texted him it was with a video or screenshot of some highlights video he’d watched, commenting on a move LeBron had made or a shot he’d hit, accompanied with a few celebratory emojis. But they didn’t really _talk_, except for when they were together.

Setting his beer down on the bar’s surface, he shot off a quick text. _hey, i’m in town. you free this weekend?_

He didn’t know what he’d do if Steph said _no_, hadn’t really been thinking that far ahead when he’d decided to fly out. As it turned out, it didn’t matter if he had backup plans — there was a response from Steph within the minute. LeBron forced himself not to smile at the other player’s obvious eagerness, tried to suppress the automatic fondness he felt as the text came through, making his phone buzz in his hand. 

_what you doing out here? i’m free tomorrow, if u wanna come over that’s cool or i can come see u, whatever works_

Ignoring his first question, squinting his eyes slightly to see in the dim light of the sports bar he was in, illuminated mainly by multiple television screens showing different sports programs, he replied —

_send me your address. i can drive over_

He set his phone down on the table briefly and took a large sip of his beer, gritting his teeth at the taste. He wasn’t really a beer guy, would always prefer wine, but this wasn’t the type of bar where people ordered wine, judging from what he’d observed so far. It all accomplished the same purpose, he guessed, already feeling more relaxed than he’d felt on the plane earlier that day, his limbs loosening. 

His phone buzzed again. _okay. [address attached]_

He’d always had a feeling Steph didn’t know exactly how to text him, didn’t seem to know if he was allowed to reference their _thing_ over the phone, but LeBron didn’t mind. It was cute, the eagerness with which he’d replied so quickly, then his stilted and almost professional response to what essentially was LeBron asking if he was free for the older player to come over and fuck him. 

He smirked as he typed out his response, hoping Steph was with someone else at the moment so they could see his face turn red and he’d have to stutter out some excuse, some alternate explanation for blushing.

_damn you aint acting that excited. maybe i should find somebody else out here to sit on my dick,_ LeBron typed out quickly. It was a hollow threat, but that didn’t mean Steph needed to know that.

His imagined scenario must’ve been close to true, as Steph replied _cut it out man i’m with klay!!! you know i want to see u, fuck off_. He could easily picture Steph’s scrunched-up face that made him look like an angry child rather than someone intimidating.

_all those excuses cuz you cant admit how bad you want it,_ LeBron shot back immediately, suddenly feeling more energized than he had all summer, picturing Steph sitting next to his teammate, hiding his phone screen so he couldn’t see his texts from LeBron. 

_i’m not sexting you man come over n fuck me for real or stop texting!! i s2g_

LeBron grinned, hoping no one was looking at him too closely and analyzing his reactions to the conversation he was having. _nah i got jet lag from this flight but i got you tomorrow,_ he responded.

Steph replied almost instantaneously. _mannn fuck u klay just asked who i’m texting _

Entirely unrepentant, LeBron responded — _stop bitching. i’ll make it up to you tomorrow when i fuck your throat and make you cry_

Steph didn’t answer for several minutes and LeBron stood up smugly from the bar, paid his tab before heading up the elevator to his hotel room, proud of what he’d accomplished in rendering the younger man apparently speechless. When it came through, LeBron was already back in his room. Steph’s response was predictably petulant — _i hate u,_ he texted, accompanied by a mean-faced emoji. 

_yeah okay,_ LeBron shot back, and tossed his phone onto his bed. He groaned, standing up straight and reaching his arms over his head, sighing at the strain on his muscles. His back was tight from having to sit on a plane for so long and he felt a shiver run through his body as he stretched briefly.

Walking into the bathroom, he fiddled with the shower temperature, sketchy as in any hotel, until he got it warm enough and then stripped off quickly, making sure not to bump his head on the shower bar as he stepped in, drawing the curtain shut. He felt his muscles start to relax as the warm water rushed over him, turning around so it could run down the tense muscles of his back.

He thought back unwillingly to one of the most depressing showers he’d ever taken, right after losing Game 5. That certainly hadn’t been relaxing — he’d been too angry to be comforted by the familiar heat and pressure, and his anger hadn’t cooled down at all after he’d wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out to get dressed. LeBron forced the thought out of his mind. It felt like forever ago, now.

Whatever. This season would feel completely different, anyway, with him back on the Cavs. 

And hopefully this year Steph would make it to the Conference Finals, he thought wryly. That would make up for the early loss this year, if they could improve somehow and make up for it by doing better than they ever had before.

A few minutes later he was turning the shower off, tugging on a pair of loose sweatpants, and crawling into bed, pulling the covers up to his neck and scrunching his eyes shut, trying to fall asleep. He couldn’t, though, for some reason. Thinking even briefly about Steph had his senses heightened in anticipation of seeing him the next day, and now all LeBron could think about was all the things he wanted to do to the other player — and that he knew Steph would let him do. 

He thought about texting him but forced himself not to, not wanting Steph to know he was still thinking about him an hour later. Instead, he sighed disappointedly at himself but felt no shame as he slowly slid his hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, freeing his dick and wrapping a calloused hand around it, feeling it begin to harden in his grip. He grunted at the feeling, wishing it was someone else’s hand rather than his own, but this would have to do for tonight.

After stroking himself to hardness, he reached out for a bottle of lotion sitting on the nightstand and pumped some into his hand, slicking it up before starting to stroke himself repeatedly. He imagined it being Steph’s hands instead of his own, the way the other player would bite his lip in concentration as he got LeBron off, his cheeks flushing as he met LeBron’s eyes. He groaned, picturing himself getting tired of Steph’s hand, telling him to use his mouth instead.

Steph might put up a futile protest just for show, so he could feel better about himself, but LeBron knew he’d do whatever he asked, and within seconds he’d have LeBron’s dick in his mouth, sucking him off wet and sloppy like the older player liked it. It would feel like heaven and look like it, too, Steph’s lips red and slick with spit as he forced himself to take LeBron deeper in his mouth, his hands grasping at the sheets beneath them to steady himself.

LeBron would wrap his fingers around the back of Steph’s head, hold him there, maybe fuck into his mouth a little, watch Steph shove his hand into his own shorts, start to get himself off as well, hard just from sucking LeBron off. He groaned at the image in his head, feeling his stomach start to tighten familiarly, pressing his head back into his pillow, mouth dropping open slightly. 

In his fantasy, he’d pull Steph off right before he came, choosing instead to cum on the other man’s face. His orgasm built up inside him as he pictured it, Steph with cum dripping down his lips and his chin — he’d probably lick his lips, and then LeBron was cumming, biting back a groan as he spilled into his hand. 

He breathed heavily as he wiped his hand off on the sheet, rolling over onto his side and trying not to think about how quickly he’d cum just thinking about Steph. The room was completely dark and he felt himself sinking into the mattress as sleep finally found him. Hopefully the night would be short, and tomorrow would come quickly — there was someone he wanted to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i already have most of the next chapter written so i should be able to post it soon!!! 
> 
> hope u guys like this 💛


	3. Chapter 3

His stomach had been in knots all morning.

Steph’s phone sat a few inches away from his hand on the couch cushion, woefully silent. He was watching some random show on Netflix he didn’t even really like, in order to distract himself from checking his texts every few seconds, waiting for a message from LeBron.

The other man hadn’t specified a time, yesterday, when he’d said he’d come over to Steph’s place the next day, assuming (correctly) that Steph would be willing to clear his whole day and wait for him to show up. He planned on grumbling about it when LeBron finally showed up, complaining about how presumptive it was of LeBron not to text beforehand and let him know when he was coming over.

LeBron would endure it patiently, sitting there with that look on his face that he often wore when Steph whined at him, a mixture between exasperation and almost-fondness that made Steph feel kind of squirmy inside, like a teenager with a crush. Then he’d say something blunt, cut right through Steph’s false bravado, probably something like Stop lying. We both know you want this bad enough to wait.

And Steph wouldn’t even be able to deny it, would probably just blush and wait for LeBron to make a move, to tell him to come closer, to grab him and push him up against the wall.

He shook himself out of it, refusing to allow himself to get sucked into another daydream. The night before he’d barely been able to fall asleep, his mind aflutter at the thought of seeing LeBron again for the first time in months, heat already starting to build up in his stomach at the image of LeBron in his house, in his bed, pressing him into the mattress, biting down on his shoulder as he shoved inside of him. 

His phone buzzed and he jumped, realizing guiltily that despite his best efforts he’d been fantasizing again. Steph eagerly grabbed his phone and unlocked it, expecting to see a text from LeBron. 

Unfortunately, it was from Klay, inviting him over to play video games. Steph sucked his lower lip into his mouth frustratedly, texting Klay back quickly to say that he was busy, wondering what Klay would think if he knew what he was really doing, sitting on his couch waiting for a guy to come over and fuck his brains out. 

Somehow, Klay did seem to know, because he stubbornly refused to let the conversation drop. 

_what plans???_ he asked, challenging Steph’s response that he had something else to do that afternoon. 

_don’t worry about it,_ Steph replied, hoping he’d accept the curt answer and move on.

Apparently not. _are u about to have sex,_ Klay texted back, incredibly intuitively. 

Steph groaned, flopping onto his back and holding his phone over his face, a smile tugging unwillingly at the corner of his lips at how Klay always seemed to know when something was up with him. _ya, and ur ruining the mood,_ he shot back, knowing Klay wouldn’t be offended. 

_is it ur secret fuckbuddy_

_maybe,_ Steph said, meaning yes. 

_damn!!! get it!!!! i’ll text you later have fun sucking his dick_

Steph let out a disbelieving laugh, unsure when he and Klay had become close enough that a text like that didn’t surprise him — that was just Klay being Klay.

_thanks buddy,_ he replied. How did you respond to something like that? 

True to his word, Klay left him alone after that. Steph kind of wished he had kept pestering him, though, as the day wore on and he was forced to find something in his refrigerator to eat for lunch, refusing to acknowledge the traitorous thought in his brain that maybe LeBron had forgotten, had gotten distracted doing something else and wasn’t going to show up at all. 

\----------------------------------

It was late afternoon when a knock finally came at the door. The sun was still blazing outside, the California summer heat infiltrating his entire house, coupling with the glass of wine he’d drunk earlier to make him feel flushed and warm all over. Something had shifted inside him over the course of the afternoon, maybe because of the wine, maybe because he was tired, maybe because he’d succumbed to the temptation of the Internet and scrolled through pages of negative comments about him as a basketball player. 

He felt raw, in a way, like he might fray apart at the seams with one look, one word, one touch, from someone like LeBron, who always made him feel exposed. Vulnerable.

So when he heard a knock at the door, arousal wasn’t his first emotion, even though that would’ve been simpler. Instead, it was a kind of aching tenderness, something much more dangerous. 

Steph forced himself to hide it, though, taking a deep breath and pulling himself together as he walked over to the door, checking himself over in a mirror before opening it. The metal doorknob was cool to the touch as he turned it slowly, letting anticipation build up inside him until he finally opened it, and was face-to-face with the man he’d been unable to stop thinking about for the past twenty-four hours. 

“Hi,” he said. His voice cracked embarrassingly, but LeBron didn’t comment on it, just nodded at him. 

“Hey,” LeBron replied, raising an eyebrow in question when Steph didn’t immediately move out of the way to let him inside. Steph blushed, realizing he’d been frozen in the doorway by the weight of LeBron’s gaze, and moved back. 

The second LeBron was inside and Steph had shut the door behind himself, he could almost physically feel the power dynamic shifting dramatically in LeBron’s favor.

Any space LeBron was in, even someone else’s home, he controlled. Maybe it was real, and maybe it was just because Steph idolized him so much, but either way it made Steph nervous enough that he stood there silently for a few seconds, unable to think of anything to say, or even to offer him a drink.

“It’s fuckin’ hot as hell outside,” LeBron said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “I don’t know how you live out here.” He was dressed casually, shorts and a t-shirt, slides on his feet, and the sleeves of his shirt strained over his arm muscles. Steph’s eyes flicked over him subconsciously before he realized what he was doing and hurriedly looked away.

“I grew up in the south,” Steph said, shifting his weight between his feet repeatedly. “I’m used to it.”

LeBron hummed, shaking his head again as if it didn’t matter. As comfortable as if he was in his own home, he sat down on a stool in front of the kitchen counter, glancing over at Steph as if he was the odd one out for standing so stiffly. 

He walked close to LeBron and swallowed nervously before speaking. “You want something to drink?” Steph asked, setting his hand down on the countertop just inches from LeBron’s arm. 

The other man’s eyes flicked over to his, and he felt his stomach twist. God, he just _wanted_ so much. And the fact that he knew they’d end up in bed, or on the couch, with LeBron buried deep inside him made him want it even more. He wondered if LeBron was thinking the same thing, if he wanted Steph just as badly.

It gave him hope that LeBron was here, had made the effort to seek him out, but he also knew that there was no way he’d come all the way out to the west coast just for him. He knew LeBron was a busy guy — he was probably visiting friends, or having a meeting with someone, and just happened to be close to Steph. In a self-pitying spiral the night before, he’d decided that there was no way this was as big a deal to LeBron as it was to him — how could it be? 

“Yeah, sure,” LeBron said, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the kitchen counter, his face mere feet from Steph’s on the other side. Instinctively, Steph moved away, and LeBron laughed. “What’chu so nervous for? This your house.” 

But it wasn’t, not when LeBron was there, taking up physical space as well as the entirety of Steph’s mental real estate, occuyping every thought that passed through his mind. 

“I don’t—“ Steph said, stopping facing away from LeBron, getting two wine glasses out from the cupboard in front of him. “I’m not nervous,” he said as he grabbed the glasses and a bottle of wine, brushing past LeBron carefully without touching him, leading him into the living room.

“Why you sitting so far away from me then?” LeBron asked, smirking at him as Steph took one corner of the couch, leaving the other for him. He accepted a glass of wine without comment, sitting it down on the end table next to his arm. “What d’you think I’m gonna do to you?” 

His eyes didn’t leave Steph for a second as he spoke, challenging him to be the first to look away. And Steph would lose that battle every time, no match for the power of LeBron’s gaze. He knew what that question would do to Steph, and it made him even more flustered knowing that LeBron knew and was purposefully trying to get a reaction out of him. 

He muttered something noncommittal, not really an answer, then shifted the conversation into much safer waters — that summer’s off-season moves. It was clearly an avoidant tactic, but LeBron was kind enough not to call him on it, but one look at his face showed Steph that he saw through him as plain as day. LeBron let Steph steer their conversation towards basketball, commenting on the Warriors’ hire of Steve Kerr as their new coach, then asked if Steph wanted to know where he was signing this season, then refused to tell him when his answer was _obviously_. 

And then, because he was LeBron, the one person who always knew how to get to the things that made Steph feel most vulnerable, he brought up the one thing Steph had least wanted to talk about and had made an effort to avoid mentioning just in case LeBron latched onto it.

“I ain’t tryna bring painful shit up, ‘cause I ain’t like that,” LeBron said carefully, monitoring Steph’s tightening expression, the way he’d already tensed up even from just a few words, “but I feel like I gotta say it. You know there ain’t no shame in losing. You got next year, and years after that. You’re still young — y’all whole team young.” 

Steph seemed to shrink into himself slightly, pressing deeper into the couch as if he could hide in it. “That’s what I thought last year when we lost — that we’d do better the next year, but we didn’t. We did worse,” Steph admitted, voice raw with emotion. “It...it fuckin’ sucks.” He bit his lip as he stared at the ground, studiously avoiding eye contact with LeBron. It was bad enough that they’d lost, worse that LeBron, the man he’d idolized for years, was here in his house talking to him about it, making it grate on him even worse. 

He’d hoped to impress LeBron this year, to show that he and his team were contenders, that they could play at LeBron’s level or at least close to it, but they—he—had fallen short, in the first-round, no less. It was embarrassing for LeBron to have watched it happen, but worse still for him to say it while looking at Steph like that, with something akin to sympathy in his eyes. 

Steph didn’t feel like he deserved sympathy — would rather LeBron have expressed disappointment with him outright, shaking his head at their less-than-stellar performance, mock their forty-point blowout in the second game of the series. He found himself chewing on his fingernails subconsciously and forced himself to stop, shoving his hands under his thighs to keep them away from his mouth.

“Hey, I get it,” Lebron said gently, and the unanticipated softness of his voice hit Steph like a semi-truck. “All of us get fuckin’ beat sometimes, I know that for sure.” He laughed self-deprecatingly, and Steph’s stomach twisted, feeling slightly guilty for making it all about himself when LeBron had suffered a more-painful loss. After all, no one really expected the Warriors to win it all, besides themselves. LeBron was a winner, that was who he was, who he’d been for years.

“Yeah,” Steph said, his voice cracking embarrassingly. “I just—” he cut himself off, feeling tears prick his eyes. Fuck, no. He couldn’t cry, not in front of LeBron, not this long after he should’ve gotten over it. He took a deep shuddery breath to steady himself. “Wanted to impress you, you know,” he mumbled, looking down. He was surprised at himself for having the confidence, or maybe the lack of confidence, to admit it, but it was the truth, and it was eating him up not knowing if LeBron knew it or not.

“Hey, come here,” LeBron said, and Steph could hear a smile in his voice as he smacked his hand on the couch next to him. Red-faced, Steph scooted over, and LeBron wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders, roughly squeezing the space between his neck and his shoulder. Steph’s eyes welled up, but at least from this angle, with his head against the older man’s shoulder, LeBron couldn’t see how red his face was. “That’s cute as fuck, you tryin’ to impress me. Flattering as hell.”

Steph felt the word cute ricochet through his brain wildly as a gunshot, trying not to show how it made him feel, even if LeBron meant it in a mocking kind of way. 

He had a feeling LeBron knew exactly what he was doing, could hear the self-assuredness in his voice. “Whatever,” Steph muttered, his voice barely audible. LeBron laughed, the sound resonating through his body and through Steph's, who felt his tears start to dry up. 

“You want to impress me?” LeBron asked rhetorically. “Use this to make you better next year, then. Play hard as hell and make the Clippers fuckin’ regret it. Bring it the fuck home.” He suddenly seemed very serious, intent on making sure Steph knew he meant it, that he thought they could do it.

LeBron could become a really good coach one day, he thought, good at forcing other people to be the best version of themselves around him. After all, part of why Steph always tried so hard was in the hopes of impressing him, even if it didn’t always pan out the way he wanted it to. Echoing his thoughts, he asked, “What are you, my coach?” 

“I’d be a great coach,” LeBron replied right on beat. His hand migrated down to Steph’s thigh and the younger man tensed, suddenly frozen. “You wouldn’t want me to be yours, though. I’d make you suck my dick if you wanted to get any minutes.” His thumb massaged gently into the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, driving home the desire behind his words. 

“I’on know if that would work, though, ‘cause we both know how much you like sucking dick,” LeBron continued, unimpeded by Steph’s anxious silence.

He felt a familiar fire start to build in his body at LeBron’s words, and he groaned silently, feeling the other man’s fingers roam over his skin. He imagined it briefly, pictured LeBron waiting for him in the locker room after each game, putting Steph down onto his knees, taking what he wanted. “Fuck off,” he whined in response. “That’s not funny.”

“I ain’t trying to be funny,” LeBron said, his hand dragging up Steph’s leg, toying with the waistband of his shorts, tugging it down slightly to wrap his hand around Steph’s hip, his fingers digging in at the exact same place he’d left bruises the last time they’d hooked up. Steph wondered if LeBron knew, was doing it on purpose.

His eyes followed LeBron’s every movement as the other player’s free hand moved to the front of his own shorts, wrapping around the hardening outline of his dick, intimidating even from here. Steph hurriedly looked away as LeBron met his eyes, following their gaze down to the front of his shorts, where his dick had already started to visibly harden. 

Steph sucked in a quick breath, biting down hard on his lower lip not to let out a noise as LeBron’s fingers trailed over the front of his pants, palming teasingly over his Steph’s dick, which twitched at the attention. “Yeah, you fuckin’ like it,” LeBron continued. “I bet you wanna suck my dick right now, huh?” 

Steph didn’t answer for a second, feeling too hot and shaky all over to speak. LeBron squeezed down hard on his dick, and he groaned, throwing his head back and spreading his legs automatically. “I asked you a fucking question, bitch,” LeBron growled into his ear, and Steph opened his eyes heavily. “You wanna get down on your knees for me right now, don’t you? Let me nut all over your face like a fuckin’ slut?”

“Yeah,” Steph breathed out, not bothering to stop and think about it or to feel ashamed for folding so easily. Who was he kidding? LeBron knew him too well to think the answer to that question could ever—would ever—have been no. “Yeah—please, ‘Bron. Lemme—”

LeBron let go of him a second later, smirking cockily at Steph as he slid off the couch onto his knees between the taller man’s legs. He tugged his shorts down just enough to free his dick and Steph eagerly slid forward, but LeBron’s hand around his neck held him back, just inches away. Steph blinked up at him through confused eyes, tongue sneaking out to wet his lips subconsciously. 

“You’d do any fucking thing I asked, huh?” LeBron asked, seeming somewhat bemused at his own good fortune. But Steph knew he really couldn’t have been surprised, must’ve known he’d be getting Steph worked up by ignoring him all morning, at home waiting for LeBron to come over and fuck him. 

Steph shook his head, denying it, but he was unable to deny to himself that the rush of shame that spread over him at LeBron’s words was a reaction of arousal more than anything else, feeling turned on by the way the other man was looking down at him on his knees, telling Steph what he already knew, that when it came to LeBron, he was nothing but a slut for him. “No, I—” he tried to say, but then LeBron was tugging him forward, nudging the head of his dick between his lips, and then he couldn’t say anything else.

LeBron leaned back, his arms spread over the back of the couch, allowing Steph to set the pace. Steph felt his cheeks flush as he looked up on accident and saw LeBron’s eyes fixed on his. He licked over the tip of the bigger man’s dick before sucking him down further, breathing through his nose and palming himself through his pants at the same time. LeBron’s hand came to rest comfortably at the back of his head, not pressing his head down yet, just holding him there.

“You wanna know what I did last night?” LeBron asked, grunting softly as Steph took him down further, the weight of his dick heavy and thick in his mouth. He closed his eyes, trying to take more of him in his mouth, almost choking himself before his breathing settled out and he focused on breathing through his nose. “Careful,” LeBron said, noticing Steph’s brief moment of panic and curling his fingers around his jaw gently. 

Steph grunted in assent, knowing LeBron knew he couldn’t answer his question and was just going to say whatever he wanted to say no matter what. He gagged almost instantly, throat burning in protest, but he kept going, fingers digging into Lebron's hips, his jaw already aching. Lebron grabbed his hair with one hand, holding him in place, then began thrusting shallowly into his mouth as he spoke.

“Ah—” he bit off as Steph proudly swallowed around him, pleased at being able to affect LeBron, who always tried to remain fully composed, and usually managed it. “Fuck. Anyways. I was thinkin’ about you last night.” 

Steph refused to blush at that — how low were his standards? — but it didn’t matter, because right at that moment LeBron fucked into his mouth harder, nearly making Steph gag, and then breathing was the only thing he could focus on, not wondering how often LeBron thought about him, if he thought about their times together as much as Steph did. 

LeBron continued to fuck into his mouth, holding Steph’s head down, knowing he could take it, as he spoke. “I was—was, ah, shit—had a few beers last night, ended up jerking off thinking about fucking your mouth just like this, making you take it,” he rambled on, and Steph groaned around his dick, pressing the heel of his hand down into his dick, straining at the fabric of his shorts. God, he’d never hear the end of it if he came from touching himself while sucking LeBron off, but if he kept talking like that, Steph wasn’t going to be able to help it.

He fluttered his eyes open to watch the movement of LeBron’s mouth as he talked, and felt tears prick at his eyes at the pain in his throat. “Shit, yeah, keep your fuckin’ eyes on me,” LeBron said roughly, voice low and deep with arousal as he stared down at him. “Bet you thought about this last night. Know you said you was out with your buddy, but that don’t matter. I bet you got hard anyways when I texted you and you started thinking about me.” 

_Holy shit._ Steph didn’t know if he wanted to be able to tell him to shut up or if he wanted LeBron to keep talking for the rest of time, to keep muttering filth like that, while he felt like his brain was getting fuzzy from the lack of air. It was all too much, and he shoved his hand into his shorts, giving in and starting to jerk himself off almost frantically, desperate with the need to come. 

“Shit, I’m about to—” LeBron said, voice as undone as Steph had heard him in recent memory, pulling Steph off of his dick abruptly, making him gasp, and jerking himself off roughly over Steph’s face until he was coming, spilling onto Steph’s mouth, his chin. 

He moaned out loud, feeling his chest heaving at the sudden influx of air into his lungs, and then he was coming too, losing control finally, his body sagging forward in between LeBron’s legs, the feeling of the other man’s cum on his face more of a turn-on than he could’ve imagined, feeling fucking _abased_. It was almost a relief, feeling so under the control of someone else, knowing he didn’t have to do anything but kneel there and take it. 

Gripping his chin and tilting his head up, forcing Steph to meet his eyes once again, LeBron’s thumb swiped at some of the cum that had dripped down his chin and then pressed insistently at his lips until Steph parted them, sucking the other man’s finger clean, his face heating up at the way LeBron was looking at him, eyes dark with arousal. 

“Shit,” LeBron breathed out, thumb pressing down on Steph’s lower lip, fingers gripping his jaw tightly. 

Steph felt like his skin was on fire where LeBron was touching him, like he was melting into the other man’s grip, leaving nothing of himself behind except for what LeBron made him into. He barely felt like the same person he’d been the night before, out at a bar with Klay, laughing as the other man drank and talked about how much he couldn’t stand the Clippers.

“Get up here,” LeBron said roughly. He practically dragged Steph from the floor up into his lap, and Steph tried not to think about how much it turned him on that the other man could manhandle him so easily. He knew LeBron was a lot bigger than him, and was even stronger than he looked, which was saying a lot, but everytime the other man moved him around like that it ignited something in him. 

He let out an embarrassing noise as LeBron’s hands grabbed at his ass through his shorts, and LeBron laughed. “You getting nervous again?” he asked, clearly amused at Steph’s responsiveness. 

“‘Course not,” Steph responded. He was proud of how steady his voice was when he answered. “I’m not scared of you.” 

His false bravado gave way instantly as LeBron pulled him in closer, until Steph's chest was pressed against his, the warmth of his body almost suffocating. “Is your room upstairs?” LeBron asked quietly, his lips brushing up against Steph’s ear. 

Steph nodded shakily, knowing exactly why LeBron was asking that, and feeling himself start to get hard again already, impossibly. “Get up, then,” LeBron said. “I wanna fuck you in your bed.” 

It was the way he said things like that, already knowing Steph would let him and wanted it more than anything, and the way he never seemed to doubt himself, that attracted Steph to the other man more than anything. It was fucking magnetic, the way LeBron talked, the way he moved, the way he was so sure of himself both on and off the court. There wasn't anyone else like him.

Steph’s legs felt about as steady as those of a newborn deer’s as he clambered to his feet, LeBron rising behind him and following him down the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom. He could feel the other man's eyes glued to him as he opened the door, feeling minuscule before his gaze as LeBron towered over him. 

He backed up towards the edge of his bed, and LeBron followed. He felt like LeBron's body was a magnet pulling him towards him, like he'd been pulling him into his orbit since they'd first met, abandoning him for months at a time, but unable to avoid the magnetic pull when they came close enough for it to be felt. It was like nothing Steph had ever felt towards anyone else before, and he tried to ignore what it meant about his feelings for the other man.

Then LeBron's lips closed over his, and he didn't have to try not to think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was unsure how to split up this chapter and the next, but i figured this was an okay place to end it...look forward to more coming soon! the next chapter will be a continuation of this one
> 
> hope u guys like this!!


	4. Chapter 4

“Get this off,” LeBron muttered as his hands reached out for the hem of Steph’s t-shirt, pulling it up and off over his head smoothly, tugging Steph’s shorts down as he shoved him backwards so that he had no other choice but to clamber awkwardly onto his bed, lying naked among his sheets with LeBron still standing at the side of the bed, eyes roaming first over Steph’s body then around his room.

Steph tensed, suddenly feeling panicked; he wasn’t sure why — it wasn’t like he had anything secret in his bedroom, but he guessed it was just from having LeBron there. It felt like opening a door, letting the other man into another part of his life, and he was worried about what LeBron would make of it all. 

He was less afraid of LeBron seeing some physical object and judging him for it, and more afraid of LeBron seeing him. Then again, maybe he was just worried he’d left a dildo sitting on top of his dresser, or something (he hadn’t, but you never knew). 

LeBron made a noncommittal noise in his throat, seemingly done with his inspection of Steph’s life, and settled in between Steph’s legs, leaning forward so their lips were almost connected. He ran one hand down Steph’s trembling side, his calloused fingers sending energy like lightning through Steph’s skin, and gripped Steph’s hip tightly, rubbing his thumb inward. 

Steph winced automatically and made a small wounded noise. LeBron looked at him, then down at the yellow-green splotch over Steph’s hip he hadn’t noticed until right then. “This from the game?” he asked, loosening his hold in a rare display of tenderness. 

Steph nodded. “I—yeah, got a bunch of bruises,” he said, squirming around a little to get more comfortable beneath LeBron’s weight. “Most of them aren’t that bad, though.” LeBron hummed in response.

Then, he pressed his lips to Steph’s roughly, licking over his lips until Steph parted his, deepening the kiss, feeling his body start to grow hot, and he assumed LeBron had forgotten about it. LeBron pulled away after a while and began to trail kisses down his neck, sucking at his skin, as if he intended to leave his own marks, not content with the ones Steph already had. Steph let out another whine when LeBron gripped his bicep, and the other man laughed. 

“Damn, these bruises're weak as fuck,” LeBron remarked, seeming amused, digging his thumb into one on Steph’s arm from where someone had grabbed him a few days before. “Can barely see ’em.” He pressed his thumb down harder, and Steph winced, his muscles tensing beneath LeBron’s grip. 

“Cut it out,” he bit out, trying to ignore the wave of arousal threatening to wash over him caused by being held like this, manhandled. “It still hurts.” It did. 

He’d always wound up with scratches and bruises after their games, especially after their games in this series, when he was being played so physically and fouled more often than he was in the regular season. He wondered for a split second if it might make LeBron feel a tinge of possessiveness, seeing him bruised up by someone else, then shook the thought out of his head — who was he kidding? LeBron wouldn’t care. There wasn’t any meaning behind these marks, and he forced himself to wrap his head around the possibility that the marks LeBron left on him after their encounters might also have no meaning for the other man.

”This hurts?,” he asked, running his hand down Steph’s side to land at a yellowish-green bruise right above his knee, from when he’d fallen (been knocked down) during a game. He dug his finger into the bruise, watching Steph’s face for a reaction. “These dudes must not know how to mark you up like I do.”

Steph’s face grew warm and he looked away, hissing out slightly at the feeling, but not doing anything to move away or get out of the other player’s hold. Instead, he instinctively pressed closer, arching his back up to get closer, shame evaporating as he started to get hard again. He wasn’t used to getting this much attention, to being analyzed like this. 

LeBron huffed out a laugh at his reaction, reaching around him to squeeze his ass with both hands. 

“I gotta show these rats how to mess you up right, huh?” he said, stubble brushing roughly against Steph’s skin. As he said it, Steph shivered, a full-body chill, and let out an audible whine as he pressed his face into the crook of LeBron’s neck. “I’mma fuck you up good. I know how you want it,” LeBron continued.

_Goddamn._ He wondered if LeBron knew he was going to be hearing that on repeat in his head every time he jerked off for the next fucking year. He probably did know, probably knew exactly how much everything he said wormed its way into Steph’s brain and stayed there. He had to be doing this on purpose.

“‘Bron,” Steph panted out before LeBron sealed his lips over his again, cutting off his voice, forcing him to swallow his words in favor of letting the other man do whatever he wanted, bite at Steph’s lower lip, shove his tongue into Steph’s mouth messily. “Want you,” Steph managed to get out when LeBron pulled away to breathe for a second.

LeBron seemed to like hearing that, judging by the way his eyes darkened and his grip on Steph grew tighter automatically. And then he was shoving Steph over onto his stomach, wrapping a hand around the nape of his neck experimentally, feeling the way Steph’s muscles immediately relaxed in response, laughing under his breath as he dragged his fingers down Steph’s back, making him shiver.

Steph felt it like an alarm blaring in his head, telling him that this was a bad thing, how LeBron could make his body come unglued with just the touch of his hand, but he ignored it. It felt too good to care. 

Then LeBron was grabbing his thighs, shoving them apart as much as Steph could in this position, making him tense up. Unexpectedly, he felt the other man’s lips press gently against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and shivered, biting his lip painfully. He wasn’t used to this — LeBron drawing things out, being so careful with him, seemingly more interested in making Steph come apart than chasing his own release. Touching him like this.

Steph’s dick was fully hard now, pressed between his body and the sheets, beginning to ache with the desire to touch himself as LeBron licked over a place where he knew he had a bruise on his thigh. He heard the spit-slick sounds of LeBron sucking one of his own fingers and braced himself for what was coming next — but of course he could never prepare himself for the way it felt when LeBron finally slid a finger inside of him, so much better than when Steph used his own fingers, it was incomparable. 

Steph gasped out something indecipherable as LeBron pushed his finger deep inside him, spreading his legs apart even more. He could almost hear the other man’s smug grin behind him at how easily he was able to “mess Steph up.” 

“Fuck,” he hissed out as LeBron pressed another finger inside him alongside the first, curling his fingers a little to force Steph to arch his back in response, his dick twitching against his stomach. “Feels so—” he cut himself off before he could say anything embarrassing, pressing his face down into his pillow to muffle his words. 

LeBron didn’t like that, and gripped his head to turn it sideways, so he could see Steph’s face all scrunched up and anticipatory, his lips red and swollen from being bitten down on so much, his eyes squeezed shut from the feeling of LeBron inside him. LeBron thrust his fingers in one more time before pulling them out, and Steph groaned at the lack of stimulation. “C’mon—” he said, then stopped, not willing to beg just yet.

“What?” LeBron asked, slowly slipping two fingers back inside him and bending them, drawing a loud whine from Steph. “I ain’t hear that.”

Steph felt like he was going to lose his mind, his whole body feeling sensitive and achy, desperate to have LeBron inside him. He pushed back against his fingers, spreading his legs wider, letting out an almost-sob when the other man removed his fingers all together again.

“‘Bron, come on,” he said quietly. “Need you, c’mon.” 

He felt LeBron move closer behind him, his dick rubbing up against Steph’s hole, and he groaned. 

“What’chu want?” LeBron asked in response, one of his hands wrapped around Steph’s hip. “I want to hear you say it.” He rolled his hips down against Steph, whose back arched in response, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

He knew what LeBron wanted to hear him say, and hated how the other man knew exactly how to draw it out of him, knew just how far he needed to push him to get what he wanted. Steph groaned again, lips dropping open.

“Please—ah—please, LeBron,” he forced out, “fuck me, come on, I need it.” He was almost ashamed at how whiny his voice came out, how small it sounded, at how exposed he was, grinding back against LeBron while the other was still so put-together, his demeanor unchanged from when he’d arrived at Steph’s house earlier that afternoon.

His embarrassment was worsened by the smirk he could hear in LeBron’s voice. “Good boy,” he said, and then began to press inside him torturously slowly, his hand wrapping around the nape of Steph’s neck to hold him in place as he began to press inside. Heat surged over him like a crashing wave, churning in his stomach as LeBron sank deep inside him, and Steph whined loudly. 

“Feels so good,” he heard himself say, before biting down on his lip hard to stop the rambling thoughts that were inside his head from coming out and embarrassing him. LeBron rocked his hips forward slowly, pulling out a couple inches before thrusting forward again, clearly much more patient than Steph felt, which was embarrassing in his own way. Here he was, feeling strung out and desperate, while LeBron was still in full control of himself. “‘Bron.”

“Yeah,” LeBron grunted, thrusting harder this time, drawing a moan from Steph. “Yeah, you love it.” 

Steph’s hands twitched around until he ended up grabbing onto his pillow, fingers gripping onto it tightly as he clenched down around LeBron’s dick. The other man was starting to move more quickly, working up a rhythm that had Steph feeling dizzy, had him sprawled out messily in his own bed, getting fucked by someone he wasn’t sure even cared about him. “Please—” he blurted out, and LeBron laughed again.

“So fuckin’ desperate,” he said, wrapping a hand around Steph’s bicep muscle as he continued to slide in and out of him roughly. Steph could feel his orgasm starting to build in him, his lower body growing tight and his toes starting to curl, and it felt so, so—much, like everything was being condensed down into this moment, LeBron inside of him fucking down into him and Steph just lying there, taking it. “You’d let me do anything I wanted.” 

Steph shook his head, or tried to, but it didn’t deter the other man, who just kept talking. 

“You can’t lie to me,” LeBron continued, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back inside him, making Steph’s dick throb. He wanted to come so badly, and he knew if LeBron kept fucking talking he’d be there within seconds. “You fuckin’ love this shit. Tell me I’m right. You fuckin’ love this shit, don’t you, baby?”

And that was enough to have Steph coming with a sob, spilling onto his stomach, smearing come on his sheets, letting out a strangled noise that seemed to drive LeBron even further. “Yeah, baby,” he said, continuing to fuck into him. “Good boy. Comin’ on my dick like this. Shit.” 

Steph bit down on his lip to try and keep at bay the pained whines that kept threatening to spill out of his mouth, his whole body aching from overstimulation. LeBron leaned forward and brushed his lips over Steph’s ear. He felt like every nerve in his body was on fire, a million times more sensitive than he’d ever felt before, his spine feeling like a live wire.

“You gon’ think about me every time you sleep in this fucking bed,” LeBron grunted into his ear, voice unsteady from the effort he’d exerted, clearly seconds away from coming undone. “Every. Goddamn. Night,” he added, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust of his hips. 

“‘Bron,” Steph heard himself say, faintly, muffled as LeBron’s lips met his, kissing him bruisingly as he finally came, spilling inside of Steph, fingers digging painfully into the smaller player’s sides. 

“Mine,” LeBron grunted as he came, body tensing behind Steph before he slumped forward on top of him, his weight pressing Steph down heavily into the mattress. Steph’s entire body fell slack, utterly boneless, muscles worn out from everything — from the season, from LeBron, from holding back the emotions inside him that had been threatening to spill over all night. 

He might not ever be able to move again, he thought, feeling dazed as LeBron shifted slightly on top of him, not pulling out yet, just allowing his breathing and heartbeat to return to normal. “Fuck,” he said out loud, and LeBron chuckled, throwing his arm over Steph’s stomach, pinning him to the bed. “That was...” he trailed off.

“Yeah,” LeBron just said, clearly proud of himself for the damage he’d inflicted. Then they both fell quiet, worn out and tired, having expended more energy than could be recovered from in just a few minutes. Steph began to feel anxiety prickle over his skin the longer they laid there, quiet. 

He wanted to stay like this forever, LeBron slumped next to him, one arm holding Steph close, Steph all relaxed and gooey-feeling from his orgasm, LeBron in as docile a mood as he ever was, but he knew he couldn’t have forever.

“Are you, uh...” Steph trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence without revealing how uncertain and wrong-footed he felt in this situation. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. “Are you staying?” But of course he said it anyway.

His voice came out horribly insecure and he cringed at himself for sounding so needy, refusing to look at LeBron. Thankfully, the other player didn’t laugh as he looked over at Steph out of the corner of his eye, raising his eyebrows. 

“Unless you’re kickin’ me out, yeah,” he answered. “I figured I’d stay over here tonight, if you ain’t got nothing else to do.” He sounded uncharacteristically fond, only adding to the surreality that Steph was having a hard time dealing with — having LeBron in his house, in his bed, looking much too comfortable and at home in it.

Steph’s heart thumped painfully in his chest at his response. 

Having LeBron so close to him made him want to have the other man even closer, wanted to roll over near him so they’d be touching, let LeBron wrap an arm around his waist and hold him there. He didn’t, but the thought was enough to make his cheeks turn pink, which was ridiculous given that he was pretty sure he still had some of the other man’s cum on his face.

“I guess you can stay,” he mumbled, pretending to only grudgingly extend the offer, trying to hide how relieved he was that LeBron didn’t plan on leaving right then. Trying to pretend like his heart didn’t feel like it was ready to leap out of his chest. 

He bit his lip to keep from saying anything else as he subtly moved an inch closer, hoping maybe LeBron wouldn’t notice Steph being pulled toward him as if by a magnet. He would never be able to admit it, but being held by LeBron, even if only for the few seconds of tenderness between them after they'd both come, made him feel more content than anything he'd ever experienced before. 

“Cut it out and get over here,” LeBron said, interrupting his thoughts. He raised an eyebrow at Steph who blushed shame-facedly at being caught out but obeyed him easily, scooting over the few inches that had been between them to press his back to LeBron’s chest, letting the other man’s arms encircle him fully. 

LeBron pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, and suddenly Steph felt thankful that he wasn’t lying face-to-face with him, because he knew the expression he was making would’ve given way too much away. But he couldn’t help it, not when LeBron was apparently trying to do everything in his power to make Steph reveal how much he felt about him, whether the other man knew it or not. 

He scrunched his eyes shut and tried to focus on the feeling of the strength LeBron’s arms around him, putting his feelings to the side as best he could for the moment. He'd deal with them later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u liked it if u read this far!


End file.
